Baptism

I was baptized in a river. The water was clean and clear; the stones that made the riverbed were round, so when my new plastic-flowered flipflop acquired for the occasion fell off as I waded out from deep to shallow, it didn’t hurt.

I don’t remember who the minister was, only that he preceded my favorite pastor where I attended as a third generation with my legendary grandfather, whom I now represent here. They sang ‘Shall We Gather at the River’ on the shore as the candidates prepared to enter the water. It was a warm day; towels were in the car.

I wanted my favorite pastor, who passed away before I could think of marriage, to reside over my wedding. His laughter I can still hear as he quoted scripture during his messages; he enjoyed a lot of the irony in the bible, and because of him and my grandfather, so did I. Pat Ruble, I hope as you hear your earthly name being uttered or written again here from Heaven your ears perk up. As you probably know now, your legacy to your congregants was a lasting one as well.

My baptismal experience would be a hard act to follow once that small church finally had its own baptismal. I was secretly grateful I’d had the ‘real river’ experience, complete with a current. The baptismal allowed the church to baptize year round.

I don’t remember if the river in West Virginia became an option after that, though I’m sure my mother would know. She came with me and my sister to our first visit to this church; the energy around her as always attracted people, and by the time she returned to Florida, was as if everyone knew her even though she had only been here two weekends. She is her father’s daughter, after all.

My mother returned to Florida with her daughter alive and recovering from spine reconstruction surgery. I didn’t know when she arrived over two weeks earlier if I would see her again once leaving the operating room.  The surgery was risky and terrifying; I’d written a will. I would be ‘re-built’ from the inside out, losing enough units of blood in the process to require transfusion and be in ICU for two days afterward. But I was alive, and walking. They made me get out of bed heavily medicated with numerous tubes attached the very next day after I became conscious again, to see if I could stand, and take a step. I did.

There was no guarantee I would be able to walk soon, or ever, though further deterioration had been stabilized that would allow for my internal organs to continue functioning, which they needed time to get back to, once lots of nerves were cut during a nine hour procedure followed by a weeklong hospital stay.

Before I was made unconscious (I would not be privy to see the operating room, or the powertools set up for use), the surgeon had said we would be finished by lunchtime; it was then about 6:30 a.m. He was wrong, though proud of his work once the task had been completed. He smiled with my sister for a photo. Another doctor who had also been in the operating room later said the surgery could have been successful though there could also have been serious complications or risk if functions did not return. I was glad I was informed of this after my organs did function again…

I’ve been scared and survived potential death before, though not like this. I couldn’t watch any videos about the upcoming surgery, read about it, or seek out ‘successful’ patients. I didn’t want to know, or I would have been even more frightened, if that were possible. This time I was also fully aware and had made a choice to take this step, mainly for my son, so that he could continue to have a mother that might be able to play with grandchildren, someday. It may be double the years old he is now, though at least by this miracle of prayer by my former home community, when that time comes I may just be there.

I made a joke to the surgeon the worst I was to expect would be to have to wear a one-piece bathing suit to cover the resulting scar; even that wasn’t true. All the stitches were inside, and the top layer that was my skin was ‘glued’ with the exception of a few stitches at the lower part where the drain tube had been in the hospital. The scar was only a ‘line’; I could wear a two piece swimsuit, if I wanted…

My mother and I had a small bit of quality time the first time in many years once my sister, who had been irreplaceably invaluable as well, returned to her home a day earlier than my mother.  Our apartment would not feel the same after our family left.

In the hospital, once I woke up and walked, it was surreal. I had been half expecting not to return to the planet. Being alive made everything look new. Small things that might have been annoying in the past meant nothing; I was only spared, blessed, and still here for my son, and whatever it was determined I was here to accomplish, as my grandfather had said while I was in high school before he passed. I even saw people differently. I was even slower than before to jump to conclusions about anyone; the other word for that is ‘judge’.

The truth his I’m obviously here for more than just my son, though before the procedure he was all I could think about. I didn’t tell him about it until knowing he would not be here either before or during the recovery with our family on his maternal side.  More irony.

My second trip to this church was with my mother, three weeks after our first being here together, when I looked it up as an option when she and my sister had arrived that first weekend. I took the initiative to locate a church, mostly because our family apart from me always went to church on Sunday, and because of what I was about to undergo.

I wanted to offer church options before anyone could bring up the subject. I didn’t know whether my mother and sister would bring it up at all, because I’d drifted on my own journey in New York from being a regular ‘churchgoer’, and this was a time they would want to respect my wishes. I think they may have been pleasantly surprised of my bringing it up before either of them may have inquired about going. Though unspoken, we all knew it wouldn’t have been right to not attend church together for what could have been a last time for one of us.

My mother chose this church; I simply provided the nearest options. At the time, with no basis for comparison, all potential choices were ‘equal’. I still don’t know what any of the others would have been, and it doesn’t matter now.

I’m here, for the first time as a ‘grown-up’, by myself, going to church on Sunday and as a member of the community. Had you told me this before going into that operating room, I may not have believed it.  Later it would be something that simply couldn’t be left out. I am, after all, my grandfather’s granddaughter.

That said, the time between ‘leaving’ that former church and being here remained a very spiritual journey. I would explore a number of other faiths, as an ‘adopted Jew', Catholic via a ‘short’ marriage, and even acquiring an interfaith minister certification, where I never really wished to practice what ministers do, other than serving those seeking counsel in life choices. I also lived in a largely Muslim community at the time of 9/11, which only served to increase a compassion for others.

At the six week post op visit with the surgeon, I saw what my back looked like in the x-ray. My first response would be ‘Where’s the remote?’ My back on the inside no longer looked like that of a human. There were rods and screws that looked like small train tracks marked with ‘ties’ that were screws in each vertebrae from behind the middle of my lungs or ribcage to additional metal connectors extended into the pelvis to stabilize its connection to the lower spine. The scar ran to the base of my tailbone.

It took me too long to realize why the front of my hips had been so sore for weeks: the surgical team had been bearing down very hard (power tools and all) from the back with my unconscious body face down on a flat steel table. Duh! I couldn’t and can’t imagine how so much had been done during that nine-hour procedure with the entire back of my body opened, leaving only a narrow pink line as its final mark on the outside.

I had come to New York in the theatre and media businesses. It was successful, though I realized when the doors of opportunity began to swing open I didn’t want to be media fodder; I could barely handle the attention I was getting in my youth then. The truth was I hadn’t come to grips with whomever I was at the time; I hadn’t identified her. I was afraid of becoming lost as others in the business had without a strong sense of self and purpose I hadn’t yet formed.  I wanted only the love of one person, one man not yet identified, as opposed to any adoration or attention from the public. I hadn’t entertained (no pun intended) that the one man I really needed above all else was the one whose speculated image (as we didn’t live in Christ’s time to see him) had hung on the wall in that little church where the bell had been rung every Sunday morning in West Virginia. The man who rang that bell was my grandfather’s best friend until his passing, who kept his promise of watching over us after Grandpa passed on before him, our ‘Uncle Lafferty’.  Of course, The Right Man was always there, keeping me safe, eventually sitting next to my grandfather from their Other World vantage point, who did the same.

My sister and I had every opportunity to get in trouble when we were growing up, and there is no doubt in my mind that being in church every time the door was open as my mother exercised her exceptional musician’s gift as a pianist and organist kept us from making any more unsafe choices than those it would seem we could not prevent.

Apart from all the reasons stated above and those yet not understood, I reluctantly, human and therefore not sinless as I am, willingly and joyfully, with as much sarcasm and laughter as possible, take up the yoke of why I’m ‘directed' to be here.  By the same token and in this journey I’ve seen and witnessed things in the world that do not disprove anything in the life of Jesus or the bible that contradicts experiences up to now. They are also things not every body in Christ as humans can comprehend either.

I won’t claim to have any concrete answers. As a human, I can’t. Apart from being ‘mercy dominant’, I’ve recognized another gift is hearing what isn’t said, feeling what isn’t written in the story, like a lot of court decisions where ‘facts’ just because they are written and recorded, are not what happened, just what was written down in the form of an opinion, by a human who didn’t have the full story. I’ve been commended in public forums for asking questions in a diplomatic and on point way that address what didn’t make it into the conversation that has been directly relevant to the issue at hand. I’ve been the resident representative of the elephant or 800 pound gorilla in the room.

No one is immune from anything, regardless of location or a country’s alleged ‘freedom’. I’ve learned every day is a gift, and nothing is taken for granted. Sometimes it’s hour by hour, not day by day. We must go on as if life as we know it will stay the same or continue to improve, though we are not promised this. Only in striving for the example we’ve been provided with in the life of Christ can we get a glimpse of what may be possible, transposing it as best we can through a Word that is divinely designed to open our eyes in a different way at different moments in time.

We are designed to anticipate peace, not conflict or violence; that feeling is to bolster us when the unexpected happens, so that we may continue to thrive and live out our respective purposes. This is where I tread a fine line between earth and ‘the church’ as many of us do. I don’t really know what a ‘comfort zone’ is for many years now: the equivalent of most of my child’s life. I was given the tools, however, before coming to New York. Empathy isn’t something everyone has. Humans hurt each other, sometimes deliberately. This is beyond comprehension for many of us, though we see it almost every day. We cannot judge at the expense of the big things: what saves lives, literally or through the Example we’ve been provided. I don’t claim or care to be accepted by those who don’t understand, I wasn’t prepared to this point to be so easily distracted.

Daily, somewhere in the world, someone puts their life at risk to save the life of a stranger, child, or animal, or on behalf of their country or their city. Right or wrong, they don’t think about the ‘deserve’ factor of who they’re saving when they choose to take action either by personal choice or as a designated soldier. I struggled at times in the past about why so many unsung heroes have not been recognized or how the significance of their lives and deaths was any less than the life of Christ. In God’s eyes, they’re not. It’s us. Our eyes had to be opened in the life, death, and only resurrection, uncommon with any other human. One human couldn’t sin; one human couldn’t stay dead in their earthly body. It can take a full human lifetime to fully comprehend what that really means. I’m only here to raise the questions, as assigned. They may not be easy to answer or very well received at times. I only have the questions, not the answers. I will try my earthly best to deliver those questions in a loving way, so that no one is insulted or offended. I also hope to create more laughter than contempt.

Winston Churchill was coined in saying that it is good to have ‘enemies’ because it means you stood up for something.  Having a child has brought the greatest joys, and deepest sorrows. And only in trying to save another life, that life, was I given courage not to back down. I’m certainly not here to create more enemies, though I may not always say or feel what others wish to hear, though it’s also why I’m here, whether I like it or not. I must joyfully accept this assignment, not least of all because my son still has a mother this side of Heaven. The reward for the price of asking the hard questions where it may not always be comfortable or welcome is remaining my son’s mother in this existence for now. By comparison it’s a small price. Tact is another facet of that capacity.  Trauma has a way of teaching how to say things with the least friction, so as to survive. It can be useful with regular people, and those that willingly or otherwise may hurt others, to keep damages to a minimum.

I hope to grow here in being able to ask those questions in a way that is compelling, and most of all in a way that my tears lessen over time, because tears can be confusing. At a glance, we don’t know if they’re from pain or joy, and either way they’re not becoming or make someone want to continue listening. It’s human nature. Yes, I have an ironic sense of humor, and I want very much to make others laugh more, not excluding me.

I commit to staying within the tenets that have built this church. My other foot in the world, also by assignment, will not permit any tampering with basic foundations others have spent lifetimes creating; that would not be pleasing to ‘the Great Spirit’ (Grandpa was a lot Native American). None of us are intended for the world or the church to become most dominant in our lives at all times, because we are to be a witness to both, we must understand both, and embrace what saves us all in life, and Spirit.

When someone saves a life outside of the church, are they any less in the eyes of God? Maybe it’s not for us to say.  Those souls are not ‘other’ than us, they were also created by God; they are simply in a different point in a journey it is not for us to define. It would appear it is all we can do to manage our own souls. We are bound to remain available to all, to guide and offer only in Spirit, embracing and celebrating together whenever life is affirmed and elevated, as that is what brings us all closer as humans on the whole to what we were intended, with what we have been provided. I can’t lose sight of that; it was hard won.

I’ve been nudged by something or Someone not of this world to not remain quiet, whether it’ comfortable or not. I hope to continue to grow in this path here, if that is the will of the Spirit we all share in a sanctuary known as ‘the church’, this church. Only time will tell. I remain grateful. Every day is a gift; thank you for being here.

This testimony is unabridged because it’s the one I didn’t get to say in a river in about 1969; maybe because it was meant for now. I wouldn’t want to listen to it perhaps from water with no current or sun shining above, so poetic license is being exercised during this milestone, so that it is recorded with others whose place in time we have in common. By the way, when I’m here, nothing hurts, and I can stand taller…

In sincerest gratitude to this community and All from whom I continue to learn.

April Fool: Unoriginal Title, Original Content

It's always an indicator if I don't make 'blog day' it's because there's so much going on I'm literally incapable of remembering what day it is, even if I thought of it earlier in the day. This time, I got in early evening after staying up almost all night without food in order to upgrade to a better dwelling on schedule. There is some peace of mind now that having been in a flood zone in the wake of Hurricane Sandy with another evacuation warning during hurricane season just the year before is really no longer an issue now.

I'm thankful and grateful having survived another displacement; there have been benefits, though not without stress. There are others who had it so much worse; we were still among the fortunate. And there were lessons learned, about the generosity of others not previously experienced in an area not well known for its compassion or hospitality. I wanted to leave New York, and ended up on Staten Island. Despite all that's happened, it's been a mixed blessing to have been here during and after the "superstorm". Even though the trauma of having lost everything more than once before was temporarily reactivated, the coping and recovery were more bearable because of so many dedicated as volunteers who traveled from across the country and staying for months on end until their assignments were finished. Most are scheduled to return home at the end of the month: the six month mark from the day after the storm.

It was not only those from elsewhere who gave generously of their irreplaceable time and other resources; it was also the nicest of New Yorkers: the true New York's Finest, as well as a few NYPD officers who actually fit the description that has referred to them in the past. There are nice native New Yorkers, they're just much fewer and further between than say, West Virginia, where typical New Yorkers who go there experience a reverse culture shock. The first state under the Mason Dixon that marks the beginning of 'the south' is known for its hospitality. To a New Yorker, people who say 'hello' to strangers and are 'nice for no reason' are almost impossible to tolerate.

In the northeast, and especially in 'the city', unless one is of the few generous-hearted who surfaced and stepped up in the wake of a 'superstorm', such behavior in their experience only happens when something is sought in exchange. Not so for West Virginians, and volunteers who displaced themselves for the better part of a year to be available and assist others who lost everything. I can only hope to be in a position in the future to do the same, or something similar. Meanwhile, the family secret saga resumes next month, about some native West Virginians two generations ago of the same blood as this author, authored by my grandfather's sister.

It is being copied from less than a hundred pages of hand written notes; and now more than half complete here. More will unfold as the story continues, woven into what has become our lives today. I don't remember ever having met my grandfather's sister, though I did know her offspring. One I didn't know was such until after their death, and it was just as well. Had I known then it may not have made a difference, though the effects of those contacts have affected more than one life forever.

I don't know how many others were also hurt; I only know when I heard grandpa's nephew had passed I was not sad. Only until I read what his mother had written did I know we were related, many years later, relatively recently.

Family Secrets IV

Continuation from September, as promised:

"After I was married; Though first I must tell you my Husband's name was Frank McGee Tucker. The McGee was after Dr. McGee. so his family always called him Dock after the Dr. Well anyway. Dock worked at the Sheerwood Mines. he had a three room house rented and our furnature in it two weeks be-fore we were married. we were married on Wednesday night. then we went to our new home Thursday morning. our house hold goods cost us $127.50. Dock got them from the Company Store. we made $10.00 monthly payments on them. they consisted of one bedroom suit. one extra iron bed stead springs and mattress and bed clothes. one straw matting for the bedroom. I scrubed the kitchen hall and extra bedroom. with a brush. we had a real fine #7 Torch light stove. I was just as happy with my new home and evry thing as if I had a mansion. I would polish my stove every saturday. it shined. I had a glassed doored safe a cook table. and an eating table and 6 hard chairs. and two Rockers and some other odds and ends - these were my happy days - Dock run a moter in the mines. he was making $2.25 per day when we were married but on this amount we lived payed our rent and made our $10.00 monthly payments on our furnature. and then our pay days were once a month but he never missed drawing money and we had been married six months he got a .25 [cent] raise we sure was glad to know he was getting $2.50 per day. but then our living was so different from what it is now. I could go to the co. store and buy a basket ful of groceries. for $2.00 but them days are gone forever I am afraid. but let me tell you they were good ones and I'll never forget them. Well its like this in about 10 months. we had our first baby a girl Florence Louise. she was a very sweet baby. and kept me busy with all the rest of my house work. but I sure enjoyed it. and when she was 21 months old. we had our Boy baby Gilman Emory. so I really was kept busy from then on. but I made it and this is all of our brood - we were both very proud of our children and they were good to mind. I always taught them to mind their Daddy he never whiped eigher of them I was the one that made them mind. I don't think they either one hold anything against me for the way I brought them up. I only did what I thought was right. when they got old enough I took them to Sunday School and Church and tried to do the best I could for them to the best of my ability. At all this time I can say I enjoyed my family. Although like many other people my heart was burdened and very heavy many many times through my life but who does not have these same things happen to them. so I count my self lucky after all. I am glad it was through these hard trials I found the Lord and learned to let him help me with my burdens and trials he is our present help in trouble I learned that a long time ago. when our son Gilman came down with Bronical trouble when he was 4 years old with our care and work he out grew it. and then when he was a larger boy he had an enlarged heart. but he seemed to out grow that to a certain extent. it is things like this that makes us seek the Lords help.
Well he has grown up and married now and has a married son of his own. now he is almost through surving four years work for Uncle Sam - My Daughter Louise wo is older than Gilman is now married and as I said before the mother of three children she lives at MacArthur W.Va., so since I am a widow. I just try to divide my time be-tween my two children and my two sisters and one brother and I have a host of friends. and I go out and stay with sick people who need help. it helps me to help some body that I know needs my help. so here I have rattled along with a lot of things that may not be of any interest to some people but I have been impressed to do this and that is why I have started this and I don't know just how far I will go" [...]

Sandy Town Hall Meeting/family secrets

The impact of the Superstorm will be felt in this community for years to come. There are businesses that still have not reopened; people that have not returned to their homes. Many wish to be bought out, never to return to their former areas where destruction and death occurred. Some have nothing left and still nowhere to go; some are living in cars, guarding over their properties yet to have electricity, heat, or water restored.

This was confirmed at a town hall meeting last night at the high school nearest to one of the most devastated areas. In the beginning, it was standing room only, with most public officials on the stage. The president came the week before Thanksgiving, a holiday I took the time to research that had its own aftermath I'm almost ashamed I didn't know earlier. Some of the people in the town hall meeting had spoken to the president, some were in photos posted on Facebook. Nothing was happening for most in a timely manner. The Red Cross going around in neighborhoods ringing a bell for hot meals or distributing blankets was no longer enough. The food and clothing had either run out, had become limited, or moved to other locations most didn't want to go to.

As the town hall progressed the crowd thinned as hours passed; some went into the high school cafeteria where agency representatives continued to provide updated information or additional resources. Most who had left the auditorium had finished what they either had to say or heard enough, most leaving without the answers they sought, still discouraged and frustrated. There had been tear-filled voices in the microphones, and anger. There were notes taken, with no timelines guaranteed, or practical acceptable solutions for those with serious concerns, many of which were being heard for the first time. I took photos to remember, including the media cameras and their reporters, none of which I saw later on the 11 o'clock news, simply because I didn't watch.

The reality was on the ground, in this community, and others hit as hard. Recovery will take years. They say another storm of this magnitude in the near future is unlikely; it's no consolation to those whose feelings range from uncomfortable to a despair that their homes no longer exist or if rebuilt will be subject to the same destruction the next hurricane season; there's no guarantee it won't be next year, in the next decade, or the next century. There is no protection from the ocean; there will be more storms. No one wishes to be in the path of any at any time, never knowing when the next 'big one' will hit.

I was given a list of real estate options to explore in the event I chose to move out of a flood zone in one of the less affected areas, where many street lights remained out and generator lights still shined their ghostly brightness to the hum of their motors, a sound now associated with trauma and uncertainty, not for the first time.

I had planned to continue the family story written by my grandfather's sister who passed away before I knew of her, which will continue. It contains within it the seeds of deeply buried family secrets I didn't realize until reading it as it unfolds in tolerable installments here. She never knew how her son really lived later in life. I'm sure she was an okay woman, whose child was exposed to and committed an unthinkable act. She likely died before it happened; I'm not sure. I only realized until reading her story why some things did or didn't happen during my childhood, when I expected more, when I expected to be protected and believed. Had the truth been known or dealt with, the consequences could have been more devastating than a hurricane, though not as much as a child's trust betrayed or dismissed.

'Acceptance Speech (Unspoken)'

Not gotten my copy back yet, so it's not officially official (though perhaps for most basic purposes); was sworn in during a 'mandatory' orientation with a notarized document in the past few days.

What is official is formally offering sincere thanks and gratitude for your continued support and confidence in my abilities to represent the children, your community, and your school.

It was as important that as many as possible participated in the first ever national online election. I know it's hard to imagine, though I was as happy for any participation, even if I wasn't the one you voted for. You were part of history if you did.

I'm a very reluctant 'politician' and was steered in the direction of your district because of open seats. Honesty cannot always be best in politics, sometimes for good reason (such as timing, or the 'Santa Claus' debate, from someone who's found out or observed the hard way); what I strive for is to use as much honesty as possible in representing our children and communities for the highest and best of all concerned.

There's sometimes truth in the saying that "No good deed goes unpunished". Through trial and error and many 'hard knocks', with the help of a few seasoned 'veterans' I've gotten to know along the way so far on this journey, it is a continuing objective to keep the 'punishment' to a minimum. My 'BS meter' is pretty strong, and there's a learning curve to 'playing the game'. One thing I cannot or will not lose sight of is why we go through what we do. We cannot diminish ourselves by shortchanging the next generation, as we have witnessed a good deal of already.

Turning a tide is not a popular position to be in sometimes, as many are deeply invested in keeping things the way they are. If this were satisfactory for all concerned, I would not have allowed myself to be on the other side of the regular 'consensus'.

To have children seeing an 'older person' as their best friend years from now, that they learned the connection between what those who cared for them helped make what they have ahead of them possible, and much easier instead of harder will have been a life well lived and purpose fulfilled. One day at a time.

Our young people arrived to be able to develop the capacity not to respect those older than they are because they're told to (positively speaking). To have the knowledge and skills to discover both themselves, and the freedom it takes to accomplish that is part of our purpose as a community. It is in reaching that place that they can also see whom among the older in their spheres merit the future investment of precious time, to know beyond a doubt as to why, and maybe not because it's 'popular'.

If a child wishes to fill your shoes because of the example and legacy that was your life, we have all succeeded, as it is our environments that shape us, and the sum total of 'everyday' experiences children encounter with and without us makes us who we are.

There is no such thing as a 'little thing', and no such person as 'just a child'. Any one of us who was ever taught that in one of those unforgettable moments others made light of or lost sight of either recognizes this, or it shows or surfaces eventually. It is a wish that every possible moment in our children's developing lives offers opportunity, promise, and nurtures who they truly are. It is part of our collective purpose as self-identified conscious community members that the next generation has what it needs to do just that.

It goes beyond the thought of senility, where we are placed in the hands of these individuals when it's too late to wonder if what we did will insure the quality of care they are delegated to serve us, if some 'little thing' will extend our lives, or 'otherwise'. It is being proud in knowing that what we left will carry on not only through them, that it carried after them as well, as their legacy, from ours.

Not least of all, thanks to cherished staff and a few special others who continued to gently 'arm twist' and encourage until the process was 'finished', for now. You are all deeply appreciated for what we have in common that's all about kids, our purest and best teachers: part of why they're here.